


Vogue Le Magazine

by metropolisjournal (TKodami)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bruce Wayne's prodigious reputation, Consent Issues, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Objectification, Public Scene, Tabloids, unhealthy compartmentalizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7466274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TKodami/pseuds/metropolisjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first Gotham Tattle that Bruce had swiped from a newsstand had been mission-critical. The second one, follow-up. It was a lot harder to justify, even to himself, the full sampler-set of Gotham’s lurid celeb beat rags that Alfred delivered with an incredibly deadpan non-smirk the next week.</p><p>He didn’t even try to explain when he directed Alfred to set up a year’s subscription to The Metropolis-Gotham Gossip.</p><p>Written for the dceu kinkmeme <a href="http://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=282579#cmt282579">prompt</a>: <em>Bruce always buys the gossip rags so he can read about how unsavory they think he is. Part of him is repulsed but another part of him gets off on it.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Vogue Le Magazine

**Author's Note:**

> HEY GUYS COME CHECK OUT MY VERY FIRST PUBLISHED SMUT.

* (B) *

  
**SHAME OF THE HOUSE OF WAYNE: BRUCE BEARS ALL TO THE HALF-CARAT CROWD**  
June 18

We can't actually get over the latest news from Gotham's celebrity scene.

Just when we thought it was safe to prowl the Diamond District, Bruce Wayne landed himself in the worst kind of trouble on Thursday.

The 45-year-old heir to the Wayne fortune swung through the party scene in the Half-Carat Quarter--known to our long-time readers as the home of the highest of the high end sex clubs--for a night of drunken debauchery. [Check our instagram @gothamttlr for more scandalous pics!].

Following a dramatic confrontation in the lobby of the Gotham Regency with his once-upon-a-time ward Dick Grayson [flip to page 12 for the photo-spread!] , rumor had it that Bruce was reforming his playboy ways. But Wayne’s intentions are as short-lived as the playboy's attention span. We're talking minuscule. We reported Brucie's reform LAST WEEK, and this week he tastelessly throws himself over every warm moving body in the Seven Diamonds club.

That kind of behavior might cut it for the plebes, but the ultra-riche have another idea of decorum. Ideas like 'asking for permission', not Brucie's 'don't touch the goods unless you pay for it' attitude. Brucie flashes his checkbook like it's actually an erotic part of his body (and we at GT wouldn’t actually _disagree_ ), but if you're at the SevenD, who needs the money? Eyes on the scene report that Bruce Wayne tried to buy a young man in the club's grope box (that's for people who get off on sexual objectification in public), only to be violently repulsed by the man's partner. Fists flew, and Bruce has the shiner to prove that a man of his size can still go down like a wet fish.

Bruce's manservant escorted Bruce from the Seven Diamonds club draped in a long Burberry coat. The camera does NOT lie. Several hopefuls snapped pics, Bruce clearly naked and ashamed under the black wool cloak of non-invisibility.

Between the groping, the fist-fight, and the propositioning, where did Bruce Wayne find the time to lose his clothing??

But let’s take a minute to appreciate these Bruce Wayne semi-naked pics. How is it that we've gone twenty years without a Wayne scandal this juicy? The Old Prince of Gotham is back, and he's making us cry.

This kind of behavior is best suited for the people that can appreciate it, Brucie baby. Why don't you come play with the rest of Gotham?

Is this Brucie's most disgraceful stunt yet? Hit us up with your letters, plebes, and let us know!!

XOXO  
Gotham Tattle  


* (B) *

For the amount of time that Bruce Wayne’s face (and other body parts) graced the cover of the gossip rags by his own calculated performance of a dissolute wastrel, Bruce couldn’t stand the trashy celeb-watching industry. Salvaging the detritus of another person’s life seemed so degrading, so at odds with everything Bruce valued. Early in his career, he’d made a decision not to keep close tabs on his tabloid image. Instead, he gleaned the filtered version of Bruce Wayne’s notoriety from the rumors that bubbled up into the reputable papers. The Gotham Gazette. The Daily Star. The Gotham Free Press. Real newspapers.

So, he really couldn’t be blamed for not _knowing_. It had been twenty years since he’d even set eyes on a Bruce Wayne tabloid cover, let alone _read_ one. And it had been the purest coincidence that he’d bought the issue, rather than just read the article on its trashy pink website.

He’d bought this particular issue of Gotham Tattle because it had become necessary to end the tabloid embargo.

Bruce had set up a textcrawler to scan any and all publications for reference to his stakeout-gone-hideously wrong to see if anyone had suspected why Bruce Wayne did the catwalk-of-shame, and just what six-figure suit Bruce had been wearing before his sudden naked exit from the Seven Diamonds club. Gotham Tattle garnered the most hits by a wide margin.

Just why that was became apparent when Bruce stared down the cover. Tattle's entire issue was a Prince of Gotham edition, 32 of its 40 pages devoted to Bruce Wayne gossip, historical retrospectives, and a truly awkward photo spread of the most popular candids that had been taken of him in the past twenty years.

Bruce felt his color come up. He wanted to fling the rag across the room, shove it into the trash compactor. He should sticky-note it, scrawl _sweep for security leaks or speculation_ , and then leave the task of reading it to Alfred.

Instead, he thumbed to the Seven Diamonds spread.

Somewhere in the middle of the article--if you could even call this journalism--his breath had shortened.

On ‘ _naked and ashamed_ ,’ he felt his thighs grow tacky. He lifted his hips slightly, and let his legs spread open just a fraction wider.

He licked his lips, and flicked to the centerfold. The tri-fold tumbled out into his waiting hand. An incredibly crisp black-and-white image that could have been a fashion photographer’s idea of a wet dream. Bruce’s hair was tousled from the quick-change behind the concierge, the shadow falling across his body in one massive black chevron, only exposing him above his pecs and below his calves.

The shadows covered his scars, but they might just as easily not have. How could the playboy have explained the jagged-tooth scar that ran across his stomach in the perfect shape of a crocodile’s mouth? Bruce Wayne had come so close to absolute exposure on the red carpet.

Oh god, but he was _hard_.

The sights and sounds from the evening hit him like a steel belt to his solar plexus. The flash of the papos cameras, the tight fit of Alfred’s wool coat across his shoulders, the weird mixture of effervescence and dread bubbling through his veins. At the time, Bruce had dealt with the situation with a detached curiosity that allowed him to walk to the door of the limousine that Alfred held open, but now that he was in his own private space he could allow his desire to take over, to remember how he had _wanted_ to feel on the red carpet. He felt--he felt--

The glossy gossip rag slipped out of his hand, unheeded. Bruce closed his eyes with a groan and tipped his head back.

A faint whisper of air brushed across his throat like a lover’s caress. A door closed on the mezzanine. Bruce slowly dragged his eyes open, and picked up the magazine from where it fell at his workbench. The tremor in his hands was barely perceptible.

The cover of Gotham Tattle glinted in the light of the computer banks in the workshop. The soft gloss caressed the promise of dark secrets inside.

Bruce was aching for release.

He wasn’t going to do a goddamn thing about it.

But what harm could there be in saving the magazine, transferring it to his bedroom, where it could wait for one of those long, bitter nights when the thought of touching himself out of desire instead of rough necessity was a luxury he could afford.

* (B) *

The first Gotham Tattle that Bruce had swiped from a newsstand had been mission-critical. The second one, follow-up. It was a lot harder to justify, even to himself, the full sampler-set of Gotham’s lurid celeb beat rags that Alfred delivered with a deadpan non-smirk the next week.

He didn’t even try to explain when he directed Alfred to set up a year’s subscription to The Metropolis-Gotham Gossip.

Since the Seven Diamonds mishap, Bruce hadn’t done anything as outrageous as the Wayne of Shame™, and he refused to cross that line even for--even for _this_. But if he behaved more like the Gotham Prince in his second unabashed youth, only Alfred chastised him for compensating. Being too much his younger self, when he could in fact just fade gently into the background like a gentleman bachelor his age.

For everyone else, it was more of the same; not entirely tolerated, not entirely condemned, but the tabloids did a brisk trade as the Prince of Gotham once again haunted the Half-Carat Quarter.

* (B) *

Patrol had gone wrong from his very first bust. A ring of human traffickers had been tipped off and fled the scene before the Bat showed up. One of the Bat’s informants missed a meet--gunned down in the Bowery by a rival gang. Two muggers escaped police custody minutes after drop-off, and he spent half of the night chasing them down, only to handcuff them to the same streetlamp again. Salvatore Maroni flounced out of Gotham lock-up on bail, and had returned to the East Side in time to strike up a deal with the Greeks to move illegal arms through the Gotham ports.

The wheel of justice turned, and ground everyone underneath it alike.

The moment his boots hit the bunker’s metal grating, he knew tonight was going to be the night that he unlocked _that night_ from his memory. The Bat seethed with the fury of thwarted justice. Bruce felt bitterness seep into his heart like a poison. He knew it was perverse to associate failure with desire, but the very thought of his complete failure to separate Bruce Wayne from the Bat burned within him. The memory of standing on the red carpet as both Bruce Wayne and the Bat for all of the public to see brought him to such a frantic hardness, he didn’t know if he could make it to his bedroom to relieve himself.

He wrenched himself free of the batsuit, but he was just too heartsick and horny to remove the undersuit. He leaned back against the Batmobile, just for a moment, and ran his hand up the side of his bulge. Shame bit into him. The Batmobile wasn’t _for_ this. The Batman did not give in to his body; he dominated it. He was in control--except, not, apparently, right now, as his hand moved frantically over his clothed erection. The touch of the slippery material against the side of his cock had him bucking up into his own hand. A long, deep groan escaped his lips.

God. He could jack himself off right here. He would _enjoy_ it.

That was one fantasy too far for his--his--first time indulging this kind of thing, so Bruce pulled his hand back.

As he mounted the steps to the lake house, Bruce felt a strange burning in his veins. This was actually going to happen, he was going to--

“Bruce.” The name pronounced with deliberate slowness, drawing out the syllable like a question.

Bruce was shocked into stillness at the edge of the shadow. In the living space, a single lamp spilled light over the floor; Clark Kent lounged on the edge of the couch, his face touched with the edges of that warmth. Clark was in a strange half-way state, dressed in his overlarge Daily Planet button-up and tie, but his glasses were folded and carefully discarded on one of the couch cushions--a studied casualness that belied Clark’s nervousness.

He wanted something.

No. Clark _knew_ something.

“Clark,” he returned, barely more than a whisper.

Clark sat forward, his elbows resting against his knees. “Alfred said I should talk to you. He didn’t say about what.”

“Hard night,” Bruce grunted, as his cock responded to the interruption by throbbing its need. He ignored it as best he could. The frustration was harder to control, but he pushed it down to acceptable levels. “Men who should be punished weren’t.”

“You wouldn’t tell me if--” Clark cut that thought off at the root.

“No,” Bruce said slowly. “I probably wouldn’t.”

Clark nodded once, to signal he understood the issue of whether the Bat required help to patrol Gotham was a closed one for tonight. It was an old argument. Clark--who wasn’t exactly his friend, wasn’t exactly his enemy, but sat on his couch on nights when Bruce pushed himself too hard, like he had a right to do it--respected his boundaries.

Tonight that respect earned an extra twisting dart in his stomach, so close to arousal that Bruce grew suspicious of himself.

“If that’s all, I’d like to--” Bruce mimed his head hitting the pillow, “before the sun comes up. Board Meeting at 10. I’m actually obligated to make an appearance at this one.”

He normally didn’t offer the man excuses; he just dismissed their conversation with a ‘Good night, Clark.’ Clark was conscientious of the fragile nature of their friendship. He never pushed. Clark dipped his chin, and wetted his lips so fast it was nearly imperceptible. Bruce assumed it to be a prelude to speech, but the silence stretched out between them.

The sound of blood buzzed in the quiet of the room. The sound suppressors that Bruce had installed in the unit _probably_ dampened his biorhythms, even at a distance, but he couldn’t be sure if they were completely effective--he never ginned up the courage to test them with Clark. The thought that Clark, who would never willingly violate his privacy, at this very moment _could_ see Bruce in the depth of the shadow, hear his heart hammering in his chest, his pupils blown wide by lust. That he could rake his eyes across the Bat absolutely mastered by desire--the humiliation of that exposure before Clark’s calm control of his own Kryptonian body.

(Bruce had never so much as seen him with an accidental erection.)

The room took on a slightly glassy sheen as a double-awareness settled on Bruce. How exposed he was in the undersuit; the black Lycra clinging as tightly as any Superman suit, leaving nothing to the imagination.

He felt his muscles tense instinctively, as though he were gearing up for a fight. Bruce’s whole body lit up in an endorphin rush, as his senses tuned themselves to the man in front of him. He registered the rise and fall of Clark’s chest, the white column of his throat, the tensing of the muscles of his jaw. There were a number of moves that would bring the situation to a satisfying resolution, all he had to do was step forward into the light--bare himself to the Kryptonian’s complete scrutiny without any idea of how Clark would react to seeing Bruce so uncontrolled…

And suddenly, Bruce was harder than he’d been in his life, his cock straining at the meager confines of the undersuit. He felt absolutely sodden with lust. It was cowardice to linger in the shadows, but stepping into the light felt too much like willingness.

Clark sank back into the lake house’s couch with a faintly puzzled look on his face.

“The shadows don’t hide you from me, Bruce--” but it’s a feign. Clark had not actually stripped his privacy away. Bruce would know, because Clark blushed as easily as a schoolboy--

“You’re a terrible liar, Clark. Alfred told you about the tabloids.”

Guilty, Clark held up one of the rags. The title was unreadable at this distance, and the picture of him--eyes heavy-lidded, a curling smirk on his face, one arm draped over a blond and a brunet man--generic enough that he can’t even guess which rag it is.

“What’s the headline on that one again,” Bruce said lightly. “I can’t remember if it was publicist-approved or not.”

“ _Sex Games: The End of the House of Wayne_ ,” Clark read, and his color rose. See? Schoolboy. “Actually, Alfred asked me to _do something_ about this. His suggestion involved massive property damage to a certain publishing house. It wasn’t exactly ethical.” A pause. “I was tempted to say yes, Bruce.”

“You, boyscout?”

“This is disgusting.” Clark waved the paper to punctuate his sentence. “Bruce, they make you sound like a slut.”

Bruce had never thought of _slut_ as a particularly degrading word. Blame his upbringing: being broad-minded about promiscuity meant that shaming Bruce Wayne took a stronger constitution than most gossip rags had in them. But the combination of affronted horror and anger in Clark’s voice, as though _slut_ was something shameful to call another human being--it punched right through Bruce’s tissue-paper thin defenses.

If Bruce thought he was hard before, his knees shook with the force of the blood draining into the lower half of his body.

He bowed his head against the dart of lust; the desire to touch himself clawed at his chest, and bit back a moan of pleasure. Desire and resisting temptation had become so tangled up in Bruce’s mind, that touching--and resisting the desire inflamed him further. Bruce threaded his fingers through his hair in frustration. Mainly to keep them from shoving them down his pants.

That board meeting at 10 am was suddenly the furthest thing from Bruce’s mind. 

He needed to hear that word again in Clark’s mouth more than he needed to touch himself.

“Maybe that’s the point,” he said, with a catch in his voice as he schooled his desire into an impassive tone. “Look hard enough at Bruce Wayne the Playboy, nobody’s looking at the details that don’t fit.” Bruce tried to make his laugh sound natural, and not half-strangled with lust. “That’s becoming difficult. I didn’t care enough, after Bane. I let it all slip. I almost exposed--the Bat--a month ago.”

“I saw the pictures,” Clark said flatly.

\--Bruce burned to ask impossible questions--

Clark held up a hand to forestall Bruce from interrupting him. As if Bruce in any way shape or form wanted to stop Clark from speaking. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I know what you’re doing, when you’re doing _that_.”

Bruce could read the absolute discomfort in Clark’s body language now, there was no way to mistake it. His body responded to Clark’s with a fresh wave of humiliation that rolled down his spine as sweet as any pleasure.

“What, in your estimation, am I doing?” Bruce was barely in control now. His voice was breathless to his own ears.

“I think you’re--well, it’s clear that you’re doing a good job of keeping the cover. The gossip rags imply you’re wanton. This one’s borderline pornographic about what you were doing in _Boîte du Lak_ ,” Clark paused, and continued in a smaller voice. “I can’t believe they would say that about you.”

The words threatened to tear a long-drawn groan from his throat.

“Kent,” Bruce said sharply, bringing Clark’s eyes to him. “Do you think I have something to feel ashamed--” and it was a testament to his great willpower that his voice did not crack on _ashamed_ \-- “about? You haven’t even asked if those rags are true.”

“Are they?” Clark asked, his voice faint but resolved. Bruce kept his mouth shut with the force of his will. He would not deny it until he’d made Clark _say_ it. And Clark was too wrapped up in his sense of injustice that he for once didn’t require further goading to do what Bruce wanted him to do.

“This one said you were in a grope booth. That you were willingly naked in public, on display, open for anyone to touch.”--Clark’s voice scraped the rawest place inside of Bruce, like touching the nerves in the pit of his stomach, and he can’t help himself, his back arching--

“Like they _owned_ you.”--an impossible tightness against the base of his spine--

“Like you were anyone’s who had two hands and a hot body--”--his thighs tensed--

“And you wouldn’t even know who they were. You wouldn’t have known whose hands were even on your body, they could have been---anyone’s, Bruce, anyone’s.”

Bruce moaned then, a strangled thing, that lived and died in the rattle of his throat. His entire body spasmed, and he jerked against the air, then slumped forward like a marionette whose cords have been cut. He clenched the muscles in his stomach as he felt the horror break on him. He just orgasmed in front of his friend, his future teammate.

The haze of desire burned down to give Bruce clarity for the first time since he’d jumped out of the Batmobile. A wave of shame broke across him. He had used the trust of his friend, made him complicit in a sexual situation without his knowledge or consent. And to add to the humiliation, Bruce was still painfully hard.

Thank god for small mercies; at least there would be no evidence of what just happened when he finally emerged from the shadows; Bruce had achieved a dry orgasm.

Clark cleared his throat (coughed spasmodically?) into his fist, and Bruce couldn’t tell whether the dampeners worked, or whether Clark struggled to allow him some portion of modesty as he wallowed in his absolute mortification. 

Minute by minute, the feeling eased as Clark stared at him plaintively attentive, waiting for his response. 

When it had become bearable, Bruce said (slowly, ever so slowly), “What if every word they printed is the God’s honest truth?”

“You are not a whore,” Clark’s eyes blazed, but his voice was gentle and quiet--like a caress against his cheek.

“That story’s not true,” Bruce agreed at last, drawing on his last reserves of calm. He needed to get himself off the good ole fashioned way, put this insatiable lust back into its box, and never, ever, let it out to play again. “Bruce Wayne plays around, but he can’t be that flagrant.”

“But--?”

“I would. If I were--” anyone but who Bruce was, anyone who could be that open with their desire to be desired. “If I _could_ , I would.”

Bruce stepped out of the shadow, then, because he had never felt as exposed as he did now, and walked across the living room floor, to his bedroom.

He stopped when his back was to Clark, on the other side of him, where he didn’t have to see Clark’s condemnation. It was one thing to fantasize it, but he wasn’t prepared to watch the respect die in Clark’s eyes while his emotions were rushing this close to the surface.

“Good night, Clark.”

When the reply came, it felt like whispered silk right next to his ear.

“Good night, Bruce.”

* (B) *

Clark had left, but to Bruce’s surprise, he hadn’t actually taken the tension away with him. An hour later, and Bruce’s emotions were tuned up to an impossibly high key. Every toss or turn in the bed brought the screaming friction of the cotton against his skin. His body screamed its need for release.

Bruce lay naked on his bed, turned on his side to face out across the lake.

He watched as the pre-dawn glow spread its rosy fingers across the sky. Another unwanted emotion overcame him – a despondency mixed with the sour kind of humiliation that had nothing to do with pleasure.

_What was he doing?_

He had worn the armor of the Bat in front of his his best friend and he had been aroused in front of him, and because of him. He had the most intense orgasm of his life because Clark had disapproved of the reputation he had painstakingly created for himself--even if that story hadn’t been true, so many similar to that one were. Had been. Especially before he’d accumulated distinctive scars from Gotham’s most infamous criminals.

He had crossed so many lines tonight. Was he going to cross one more?

Bruce had no control over himself tonight. The pleasurable burn of submission teased in his body, one that promised satisfaction beyond pleasure if he allowed himself to give in to desire, rather than be broken by it. Give in to the shame of having desires at all.

Exposed in an entirely different way now, Bruce gently lowered himself onto his back, let his legs fall open on the sheets. He slid his hand down to stroke his hip, fingers dancing away from where he wanted them to be.

It was one thing to be the Bat and Bruce Wayne where anyone could discover; it was another order of magnitude to be exposed to Clark as the unfamiliar, lustful creature wearing Bruce’s face and the Bat’s black garb. Bruce felt the twinge of disgust and delight, wrapped so tightly around each other that he couldn’t tell one from the other, and the small thrill as he brushed the back of his hand across his straining erection.

He allowed himself to pretend.

_Did you touch yourself to those pictures, Clark? Did you see my moment of absolute shame in the living room, and get hard, Clark? Did you feel how humiliating it is for me to give in to my desire? Do you know how hard I am for you now?_

Pleasure mounted in his body, and he bucked into his touch as his other hand slid down to cup himself. He kept the motion of his hand punishingly slow.

He wasn’t touching himself in the brutally efficient way he treated himself most nights, when he couldn’t deny the need of his body but couldn’t justify enjoyment, either. No. This was just for him, tonight. He delighted in the feeling of rough skin of his hands against his sensitive organ. The drag of his nails over his abdomen.

It felt good, but he needed more.

Bruce moaned as he picked up the pace. Burned, because he wanted more than this. He wanted--Bruce fought against himself. He set a punishing motion: down, up, flick of the wrist, down, up...

In the long run, wanting would only lead to difficulty when he’d have to put his emotions away again, sublimate himself in the Bat. And yet--hadn’t that weird in-between creature he’d been ached with the intensity of the Bat? Would it be possible that the Bat could want--could want--

Bruce could feel the way his body tensed for another dry orgasm that he would not find release unless he surrendered this last fight.

Bruce surrendered, giving voice to the shame that smoldered in his core. He started low, barely a whisper, to nothing but his sheets. “If I was the kind of man who--could be that Bruce Wayne from the tabloids--”

He stopped, and threw his head back against the pillow, fighting with himself even in this. Even when the words are for him alone. “I would have been in the grope box at Seven Diamonds.”

Bruce brought a hand up to his mouth and licked a stripe up his palm. He returned it to his cock, and groaned.

“I would have taken off all of my clothes, slipped the blindfold on, and waited on that dais for anyone to touch me.

“And I wouldn’t even have known who they were. I wouldn’t have known whose hands were on my body, they could have been anyone’s, Clark. They could have been yours.”

He choked the confession out of himself. "I want them to be yours."

His cheeks burned in remembrance of of Clark’s face as he recriminated the tabloid’s story--and Bruce by proxy. When he pictured the color high on Clark’s cheeks, as… something… dripped in his voice, and maybe--Clark hadn’t been so clueless at the end? His words had felt like a benediction, his breath against the skin of his neck, tender and controlled.

_Good night, Bruce._

It was too much, and not enough; Bruce jackknifed off the bed and came in long spurts that bent his spine.

When he came back to himself, Bruce was aware that he was wetting his lips with his tongue over and over again as he stared out into the lightening sky.

Bruce laid back against the bed, skin now agonizingly over-sensitive, his body completely spent. A hazy lassitude carried him away into sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a nasty come-down, and one hell of an apology.

As he drifted off, a single image affixed itself in his mind: Clark, half-turned in the sky, wearing a suit & tie, his glasses off, lips parted to say something. An image that Bruce dimly believes to have bubbled out of the depths of Bruce’s id. The god dressed as a man, descending. The only luxury that the Bat of Gotham couldn’t afford, but that he burned to have, anyway.

Bruce's eyes aren't open, so he can't see that it's less a forbidden tableau, and more of a promise of what's to come as Clark straightens his tie, raises his hand, and rests it against the sliding glass wall of Bruce's bedroom without waking him.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, look how close I am to actually writing mutually satisfying porn! So close! I'm like [thiiiiiiiis] far away, guys. Maybe next time, huh? xD
> 
> A few very hopeful nonnies wanted a sequel to this. As with everything: we'll see. 
> 
> This wasn't my first time writing smut, but it was my first time posting it. So be gentle fellow readers. And if you like what you see, consider hanging out on the [dceu kinkmeme](http://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/) and leave a prompt or a fill. There are so many amazing writers & commenters there. Come hang out with us!


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